Romeo, Rosaline & Do You Want Me To Use Your Head As A Toilet Brush?
by Heaven Is A Book Shop
Summary: AU/AH/One-shot: Advice can be found in the strangest of places, even from a girl in Pandemonium. Simon's POV.


**A/N: This is a one-shot (_and shall remain that way_) in Simon's POV.**

_**Usual Disclaimer Applies**_

**Romeo, Rosaline & Do You Want Me To Use Your Head As A Toilet Brush?**

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"Another," I slammed the notes onto the bar top, just like they did in the movies. Although in the movies they usually had money to burn, and if they didn't then they were about to win the lottery or some shit like that. In the movies they weren't hung up on their best friend who said she "only saw him as a brother". And if they were, I doubt they came to Pandemonium to drown their sorrows.

I rested my throbbing head next to the notes, as I faintly heard a female voice saying something to do with how they'd "deal with this one, Santiago."

Someone gently tugged my hair, so I ignored them. I was sick of gentle; gently being let down by Clary, gently being comforted by my sister, gently being comforted by my _mum_, gently being comforted by _Clary's mum._

Yeah, I would quite happily push "gently" off a bridge. And _I_ wouldn't be gentle.

Whoever had pulled my hair also seemed fed up of gentle too. I felt the scratch of sharpened, unnaturally pointed nails as she – at least I assumed it was a she with nails like that – yanked my head up to meet a pair of fuming onyx eyes.

"I don't care how drunk you are, you dribble on the bar and I'm going to use your head as a toilet brush." The eyes belonged to a dark haired girl, clad in a tight black top and a form fitting leather jacket. She looked like an assassin, a warrior, a demon hunter; she could probably teach a guy a lesson or two if he didn't treat her right. The use of my head as a toilet brush suddenly seemed the least of my worries.

I realised I'd been staring and shut my mouth. This was also something that didn't happen in the movies.

"Now," Mercifully, she let go of my hair. "That's better."

Before I could even respond she had shoved a glass of water onto the bar in front of me and was looking at me expectantly. I didn't fancy taking my chances as a human toilet brush and gulped back the water. The satisfaction on her face when I brought down an empty glass was clear.

"You know," she looked at me with a raised eyebrow and a small smile on her face. "Getting hammered won't make you forget about her. It just makes you sad, and then you start to remember the good times with her, and then it gets to the drunken phone calling – which is really the stage of no return–"

"How did you know?" I cut her off. Which, I'll admit, wasn't my brightest move – but what drunk, heartbroken, friend-zoned guy is thinking straight?

She looked at me and blinked – the astonishment that someone had interrupted her was clear in her wide eyes and slight 'o' shape to her mouth – but then she straightened up and pulled a smirk onto her features. "Well, I saw you checking me out, so I guessed that you like girls. You could be bi, I guess, in which case I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right and–"

"– No, I mean, how did you know there was _anybody_?"

"Because this is Pandemonium!" She raised her hands either side of her – a queen showing me her kingdom. I still didn't understand.

"Ugh," clearly, my confusing was as irritating as drunken guys drooling on the bar. "That means, a, we sell cheap booze, b, there are plenty of hot single people who come here, and c, because the music may be crap, but it is loud enough to block out any wondering thoughts of exes or unrequited love." The girl counted each point off her fingers.

I stare down at the empty glass, from embarrassment or sorrow, I'm not sure. All I knew is that she could read me like an open book – probably knew about my basement band (currently named Righteous Roundabouts) and comic collection at the bottom of my wardrobe.

"Tell me about her,"

I stare blankly; there is no way in high hell I'm telling a stranger in Pandemonium about my pathetic sorrows.

"Oh, come on," She laughs – I guess my distress is a bit of a joke. "Let me guess, she slept with your best friend – oh, no wait, it was your brother wasn't it! Or your sister? That must hurt being in love with a girl who's on the other bus. You know, my brother did that once, although he fell for a guy, his best friend too actually…" The girl's random splurge of words slows as she watches my downtrodden expression. I must look like an abandoned puppy left in the middle of a road in the rain, except less likely to pull at the heartstrings due to the smell of alcohol on my breath. A slender pale hand wraps around my own. "It will help, you know."

_Here goes nothing._

"Her name is Clary, Clary Fray, and she's been my best friend since I was six years old. I was there for her when her parents divorced and she was there for me when I lost my dad. I used to watch her draw her own manga and she would come round mine to watch Studio Ghibli Marathons - yeah, I know, we were weird, but it was our kind of weird. I thought things were going great, that we had something no one else had. And then she tells me I'm practically her brother and nothing else. To make it work she gets a boyfriend, who is, of course, perfect, speaks five different languages, plays piano, is trained in the martial arts and is filthy rich because his great-great-great-grandfather owned some Duck Pie Company back in the eighteen hundreds. Even her asshole of a father approves of Mr Goddamn Jace Herondale!"

The girl just watches me for a few minutes and I silently curse the alcohol in my blood causing me to talk about my troubles to this girl, a girl who I seem to end up telling all my insecurities even if I don't want to. "So, it's kind of a whole Romeo-Rosaline situation?"

"Don't you mean Juliet?" I was pretty sure it was Romeo and Juliet. Then again, I had never been a big fan of Shakespeare since I'd had to study MacHamlet with Ms Norbington. I swear that woman was part demon.

"No," The eyes are rolling again – clearly alcohol has had negative effects on my brain. "_Rosaline._ Did you never do Shakespeare in school? At the start of the play Romeo is in love with Rosaline who doesn't love him back, however, when Romeo meets Juliet who _does_ return his love it makes their love story seem even more real. And Shakespeare was also pointing out the fact that unrequited love isn't true love."

"What you're saying is… I survive the play?"

"No, you're Romeo, Clarice or whatever-she's-called is Rosaline."

"So, Clary survives the play?"

"By the angel, there _is no play._ What I'm saying is that these unrequited, fictional fantasies you have of Clary and you aren't real – just like Romeo's unrequited love for Rosaline – and one day you're going to meet a girl who will make you forget about this Clary girl. For angel's sake, I may spend my nights working Pandemonium but that doesn't make me stupid."

The girl's anger seemed to have opened her up somehow, as if I could suddenly see her in a way I'd never seen her before. I could know see the girl's eyes had gold flecks in the centre, as if the black paint of her irises had peeled away; I could see how her red lips looked blood stained in the flashing lights of the club; I could see the chips in her nails from one too many night shifts.

It seemed to make her even more beautiful.

I wanted to kiss her.

"What's your name?"

Her eyes instantly became guarded, she was clearly okay hearing the problems of others, but didn't want others knowing her personally. However, she obviously assumed I was either too drunk or too stupid to remember her, probably both. "Isabelle Lightwood. Yours?"

"Simon Lewis. And I must say Isabelle Lightwood, I can't agree with you about there being no play, '_All the world's a play'_, right?"

Isabelle smiles, a real smile this time no cheeky grins or suggestive smirks. She pushes the notes I had previously slammed onto the bar. "It's '_All the world's a stage'_. Now go. Or I will assume you want to take up my offer of being human toilet brush."

I push the money back and say, "Consider it a tip," Isabelle's red lips part in protest. "I know, you're not a shrink, just consider it a thank you."

I make my way to the exit, weaving through drunken dancers and, well, the just generally intoxicated people that fill the club. I chance a look over my shoulder to see a beautiful girl behind the bar yelling at an unaware drunk, "By the angel, do you want me to use your head as a toilet brush, too?"

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**A/N: I'm sorry! For anyone wondering why I went into hiding but I had severe writer's block, with both Fanfiction & my originals.**

**I started writing this one-shot months ago when it was originally called "**_Romeo, Rosaline & Do You Want Ice With That?_**" The idea had been kicking around for a while after studying Romeo & Juliet for school.**

**I hope you enjoyed :)**

**Review, please...**


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